


The Ground In Shangri-La

by Hageny



Category: Bedannibal - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 08:25:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7353373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hageny/pseuds/Hageny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal and Bedelia become parents, and their lives--and marriage--take an interesting turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ground In Shangri-La

**Author’s Note** : There is a line in Italian in this story. I do not speak Italian, so there is at least a 50% chance I fucked it up, but hopefully the meaning is at least discernable. I hope everyone enjoys this story, I hope there is a whole lot of lovin’ between Hannibal and Bedelia in the upcoming episodes—I hope I did these characters justice. I adore them. If there are any points that lack clarity, or if anyone has any questions regarding some of the dialogue, or the choices I, as an author, have made, or Bedelia and Hannibal make, please feel free to inbox me at hageny.tumblr.com. I will be happy to answer any questions, and am always happy to receive feedback.

 

 

_The Ground in Shangri-La_

He sees it in her face first.

It’s there, settled in the skin, in the soft grooves, talking to him already. Before he even begins conversation, before the question is even asked. Before she can even own up to anything.

Bedelia turns, hearing him as he enters the room, the soft meticulous patter of a cat whose presence is given away by the hardwood floor. She stops stirring her tea, the clink of her spoon echoing in the room as they observe one another. He knows, and she feels a strange emotion akin to relief settle in. She wouldn’t have to gather the words to start that conversation.

He draws a little closer, almost hovering now, eyes roving her face, making sure the skin hadn’t lied before he forms the thought, and then the words.

“You are pregnant?” He means to pose it as a statement, but the uneasiness about the reality hitches his voice on the last word, and it’s a question.

But she knows it’s not.

Bedelia regards him for a moment, drawing her pale eyes over his taut skin, dipping into the dark orbs that haven’t left her face. She searches for anger, rage, a threat. She is almost disappointed when she doesn’t find it. Because it catches her off guard. He catches her off guard, and she is unprepared.

She exhales, turning away from him, removing her spoon from her teacup, setting it aside, realizing as she cradles the porcelain in her hands that she no longer wants tea.

Looking back at him she parts her lips, eyes roving his face--searching. It’s unchanged.

 “It’s not set in stone” she says finally, her soft voice breathless, revealing its shock. It’s real now, now that it’s acknowledged, still in the air.

“You are unsure?” he inquires, tilting his head slightly. His dutch accent changes the last word: unshoor. The ‘r’ resembles a ‘w’.

She pauses a moment. “I am positive about my condition…but not about its finality”. Her eyes pass gently over his face, locking with his own. She attempts to appear unfazed, but her mouth puckers slightly, and confidence tips like a boat at sea—but not in her favor. She might’ve kicked herself, had Hannibal’s face not looked the same as her own, as she could feel it looking. Set, but shocked. Shock somewhere beneath porcelain.

She waits for him to react, but he merely continues to stare. Discomfort finally averts her gaze, and she grabs the teacup in spite of herself, slowly bringing it toward her. She cradles it in her hands, fingers dancing over its etchings, looking at herself in bergamot. She finally looks back at him, exhales again, casts a gaze at the sofa behind him, settles back on his face. “Do you find the prospect threatening?”

He looks at the counter a moment, pursing his lips gently, drawing a hand over cool marble. So soothing now.

“My reaction to the prospect is irrelevant, it is not my decision to make.”

Bedelia drew her head back in surprise. She wondered about his familiarity with feminist discourse.

They stare at one another for a moment before Hannibal turns gracefully on his heels, walking toward the door frame that separates the dining room from the living room.

He stops before he disappears into the darkness that hovers beyond the kitchen, turning slowly toward her. He rests a stunningly gentle gaze on her face; his eyes dip to her stomach on impulse.

“I only request that you inform me of your decision, whenever it is made.” He pauses, then leaves, that distinctly balletic patter echoing on the walls, moving away from her.

Bedelia feels nearly stunned, perhaps more taken aback. She collects herself, absently setting her teacup on the counter once more. It is already forgotten.

She is alone with herself, in the apartment with the gilded walls, where centuries of Italian history linger, changing the air. She is alone with herself, except she is not.

She looks down at the gentle curve that announces its presence beneath her silken robe. She has not been alone for a while.

~~~~

“You want the satisfaction of my soiled hands.”

Hannibal looks up from his leather-bound book, pages worn with age. An Italian writer, an obscurity to the lesser-educated populace.

He stares at her for a moment, the golden tresses that spill gently over fine shoulders, the red silk that tries its damnedest to conceal the truth.

“You want participation.” Her voice is charged, but the truth of her condition hasn’t removed its shock from her face.

Hannibal pulls at his cuffs, undoing their buttons. “This has nothing to do with our life, Bedelia…or with your participation in the recording of certain events.” He refers to the two unfortunates from the Capponi.

She eyes him carefully. “You recorded.”

“This is not a lamb for slaughter, Bedelia.”

The words shake her a bit, and she shifts her weight. She ponders the words, turns over the idea that perhaps there is no catch in this situation.

“What do you feel?” she asks quietly. Only a coffee table, its wood worn with age, separates them.

Hannibal looks at the opposite end of the room, where a fire crackles in its confines, the only light in the room. Powerful, still, as it radiates toward the living room’s edges, leaving itself in forgotten corners.

“It would be inappropriate of me to share my thoughts on a situation I left in your hands.” He looks back at her. “If I speak… _it’s_ no longer at your discretion.” He eyes her stomach again.

She blinks; a solemn shadow washes over her face. Hannibal realizes she feels very alone.

Now it is her turn to withdraw, and he watches the silk trail behind her, hears her heels touching the floor. A soft, ‘tap, tap, tap’ that moves to an unseen portion of the apartment.

He sits for a few moments, watching the blaze, then rises to his feet. He needs no assistance in finding her, makes no mistake when he assumes her location.

She is the only thing that fills the room, her gentle outline an elegant curve as she rests against the doorframe. It is empty, save for a painting on the opposite wall.

Ruben’s _The Birth of the Princess_.

Hannibal watches her from a distance before she acknowledges his presence by tilting her head over her shoulder. He sees her profile, finely structured. Pristine. She does not make eye contact, and after a moment she returns her gaze to the painting.

He approaches her and stands quietly behind her. She can smell his cologne on his skin, on its last notes, a musky closing. He feels the warmth of her skin, but notices her muscles, pulled taut with anxiety.

He reaches for her, arms encircling a delicate waist; his hand brushes momentarily against the new curve of her stomach. He draws in a breath, pulling her close as his eyes settle on the painting. Their breathing is synchronized, and she finds a peculiar comfort in the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as she rests her forehead against his chin.

Were the situation, the posing, not so foreign to them, it might’ve tasted sweet, but Bedelia quietly acknowledges that the only time their bodies have met before this is in the bedroom. Displays of affection elsewhere in the house were few and far between. Her intuition tells her that Hannibal has also acknowledged this truth.

“It just happened.” Her words sounded cold as they bounced gently off the empty walls, settling in the air. She still couldn’t bring herself to say the word, ‘baby’.

“So did our marriage” replied Hannibal.

“No, you and I chose.” It’s the first time she admits this aloud. Her presence in Italy, her continued residence with Hannibal--both were a choice. Her choice. The finger she had pointed at coercion pointing firmly back at her.

He pauses a moment before replying. “And what have you chosen now?”

She releases her grip on his forearms and drops her hands at her sides. She eyes the bump nervously, its shape and size enhanced by the muscular arms that encircle her body.

He watches her quietly. She slowly lifts her hands and touches her stomach, acknowledging its presence for the first time. She cradles it gently, her lips parted slightly, evidence of shock not yet worn off. He can see her mind settle like a boat coming ashore.

~~~~

She leans against his shoulder, nestled in the sofa, savoring the warmth of his body. It was a warmth she neither noticed or craved before.

The fire crackles still, but more gently now, as though it has found its place, no longer blazing haphazardly behind its cage.

“My father was named Charles” she says quietly.

Hannibal ponders this a moment, his cheek brushing against the top of her head. “Charles for a boy” he says softly. He feels the baby taking shape more and more with each acknowledgement, growing quietly from a fear into a person before them.

He wonders if it would be appropriate to solidify his union with Bedelia, to let ink dry on paper as the law acknowledged what nature had already begun.

He wondered if she would say yes.

~~~~

“Do you want to know the sex of your baby?” The nurse turned her eyes from the screen and eyed Hannibal and Bedelia. She thought about how beautiful they were.

Hannibal shifted slightly and looked at Bedelia. His repeated presence at the office had been for the sake of keeping up appearances, an attempt at normalcy, a move down the path of convention. Or at least it had begun that way. He came more frequently as the months dragged on, although Bedelia never imposed upon him. 

Bedelia turned to Hannibal, before turning back to the nurse. “May we have a moment, please?”

The door clicked softly behind them, telling them they were alone.

“It is your decision, Bedelia” Hannibal says softly.

She looks at her stomach. Larger now, though she remains petite, and thus, so does the baby.

“It would enable us to make arrangements more easily” she replies, referring to the nursery that contained all of its vital elements but none of the charm that hints at the impending arrival.

She turns to Hannibal.  “It’s not my decision alone.”

He gazes at her for a few moments. She makes note of a new expression as it passes over his face, one that has remained—mostly—a stranger to him. She notes a sincere emotion attached.

He looks at her stomach for a moment. “I cannot have the final say.”

She notes, once again, his deferment, and wonders how he views pregnancy.

The nurse returns and looks at Bedelia expectantly.

“Let it be a surprise” Bedelia says, after a moment of reflection.

Let it remain a surprise the way it began, until the time is right. Patience is a virtue.

~~~~

He presents the gift after dinner, as she sits on the sofa.

She notes the elements it contains, hallmarks of their pasts, their birthrights. Their families, and the affluence that touched each generation like an ever-budding vine.

She marvels at the detailing, gently tracing a finger over the coat of arms, color and symbol cut only by the names ‘Lecter’ and ‘Du Maurier’.

Another month has ticked by since their previous visit to the doctor, and Bedelia wonders how long Hannibal had nursed this idea.

“Are you pleased?” he inquires, gently, but with the impatience and hope of an urgent child.

“Greatly” she replies, smiling as she holds the heavy wooden object that acknowledges the blending of old bloodlines.

She looks up at Hannibal, and a serious expression takes hold of her features. “Are you prepared?”

He smiles in amusement. “Can one ever prepare equilibrium for disruption?”

Unsatisfied with his reply, she turns her eyes to the fire.

He touches her shoulder gently, letting his fingers dance along its curve. “You and I are very capable, Bedelia.”

She nods thoughtfully, eyes still locked on the fire. It dances unpredictably.

~~~~

The pain that awakens her is a shooting one, but her medical learning argues the occurrence. The time is not right, and she wonders if it was merely test.

She waits tensely, each minute that ticks by unwinding her a little, easing the rigidity of her frame. She eyes the coat of arms that leans against a chair in the center of the bedroom. She looks over at the empty space beside her, knows a fire flickers still in the library.

She feels her muscles tighten again, and holds her breath. The tension lasts a few seconds, but her education brings to mind all the risks associated with a premature birth. An appearance a month and a half too soon.

She rises and draws her robe around her for comfort, moving slowly toward the library. The door is ajar and she can see Hannibal seated on the sofa, the crinkling of old pages the only sound to fill the room. Before her pregnancy music ran late into the night. Now he was accompanied only by silence after she retired to bed.

He hears her before she enters the room, and is looking expectantly at the frame when she enters. He notes immediately the flush of color in her cheeks, and the pensiveness that knits her brow.

Before she even registers any motion, he is before her, a hand cradling her waist, another on her arm, and she is led toward the sofa. He is phoning their physician, and making arrangements to meet at the hospital. He cradles her still, as her mind races.

She ponders his capacity for love.

~~~~

Hannibal paces pensively in the hospital corridor, creating a distinct ‘tap, tap, tap’ that echoes down the hall. It has echoed for nearly 15 minutes and might’ve angered other patrons, were there any. To his great relief, the maternity ward is strangely silent, and his are the only steps that sing on the tile floors, save for the click of a nurse’s heel on occasion. Hannibal is not one who is given to pacing. He realizes that until less than a year ago he was not one given to marriage, and until seven months ago he was not one given to fatherhood, and yet he has passed into the areas he had previously left to those given to convention. He realizes he has coped quite well in new spaces.

A young, small nurse emerges quietly from Bedelia’s room. Hannibal is making his way toward the farthest end of the corridor, and his turned back allows for a quick moment of admiration for his physique. She notes the graceful yet powerful build, and as he moves she suddenly thinks of the ballet.

Before she can make note of the fact that he has spun to face her, she feels his dark eyes studying her, and jumps in embarrassment as he moves swiftly to her place in the hall.

She flushes a deep crimson, folds her shaking hands, and says, “Your wife has asked to see you.”

Hannibal notes the change of color, but it is one he sees so often in the faces of women who regard him that he no longer takes any pleasure in it. He makes note, rather, that her admiration will enable him to manipulate her into creating an environment that is as pleasing for himself and his wife as possible, should the need arise.

“Grazie” he replies, stepping past her and opening the door to Bedelia’s room. He waits to hear the sound of a baby, but notes that the only noise that fills the room is the mechanical beep of a machine. He looks at her and realizes she is still pregnant.

They had never discussed his presence during the birth of their child, and when Bedelia was whisked down the hall she did not request it, and so he remained where she and the hospital staff had left him.

She is sitting upright, her posture perfect even though she is now 3 hours into discomfort. She notes the curious, quiet expression on his face, and speaks.

“It will be a while.” She pauses a moment, before speaking again. “You may go home, should you wish. This hospital offers little in the way of creature comforts.”

Hannibal eyes her for a moment before replying. “Are you in pain?”

She tilts her head, noting he has decidedly ignored her offer. She muses about the presence of convention in his life, and his reaction to it.

“It’s manageable” she says softly, that familiar gentle smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“This hospital offers comfort in exchange for currency” Hannibal says, tugging at his cuffs. He looks at her again. “I am not in need of anything.”

Bedelia pauses for a moment, studying him. “You are responding favorably to normalcy.”

“It does not detract from my life.”

Bedelia knows he has killed sometime in the months since learning she was pregnant. She only regrets she was not an observer.

Bedelia quietly ponders his reply. “Your habits will find a new arena.” This is not a request, merely a reply.

He knows dinner parties will be held elsewhere.

Her accompaniment is without doubt.

~~~~

Hannibal enters the room quietly and looks over at Bedelia, seeing the tiny human form swathed in a light cotton blanket. A tiny form that the doctor informed him should have been taking up residence in an incubator given its early arrival, but who refused the aid of man and machine and breathed defiantly on its own, a tiny one whose vitals and ability to cope with the stress of adjusting to life outside the womb confounded the doctors who attended it. Like its parents, it displayed even in its first hour on earth a stunning level of personal power, and was where it determined it should be—in its mother’s arms.

Bedelia eyed Hannibal’s face as he slowly approached the bed, looking for emotion in his usually apathetic visage. She had, in the months leading up to this moment, caught glimpses of more genuine feeling than she anticipated. His person suit was intact in the real world, but at home it seemed a little worn.

“You have a daughter” she said quietly to him, gently offering him the tiny bundle.

Hannibal took in a slow breath as he accepted it, wondering if a new feeling would arrive when he glimpsed the new face in its entirety.

He felt surprise before anything. A shock of wispy dark hair—his own, he recognized—set above a pleasant face that bore his nose, and Bedelia’s eyes and lips. The hair curled gently at the ends, nestled against a round little chin.

He looked at the little face and thought about Michelangelo’s _The Creation of Eve_ , the creation of new life during one’s own lifetime, the bringing into being of a soul that was an extension of one’s own. He felt fatherhood gratifying his ego, and knew that was what parenthood was—the highest level of self-gratification known to man. The creation of life, which preceded the taking of it.

~~~~

She found the tiny box on the table, resting daintily atop her dinner plate.

Hannibal places a delicate sprig of sage atop the braised meat that is the evening meal. He looks up as she comes into the dining room, and smiles to himself as he fills her glass with wine.

“You took my wedding ring, Hannibal” she says, fingering the box and giving him a look of disapproval, though a smirk dances at the corners of her lips.

“I made alterations” he says from his seat at the table, holding his fork and eyeing his meal in anticipation. Bedelia knows good manners prevent him from eating before she has taken a seat at the table, so she sits to allow him to satiate his hunger.

He pauses a moment, then sets his fork on the table and looks up at her. “I hope you will find my gift satisfactory” he says, taking a careful sip of wine.

Bedelia breaths in slowly, and curiosity dances across her face, though she manages to withhold any obvious signs of intense interest. Apathetic excitement. Never one to gratify an ego easily.

She lifts the lid, feeling Hannibal’s urgency from his place at the table as he eyes her keenly. “It appears unchanged” she says flatly, looking up at him with an affected weariness.

“You overlook the details in favor of the whole picture” he says, averting his eyes and allowing himself his first taste of meat. His keen taste buds congratulate him once again. He makes note of the texture of the meat: similar to duck.

A slight level of annoyance puckers Bedelia’s lips as she lifts the ring from its confines. It takes a moment for her eyes to register, in the dark of their home, the dates inscribed on the band: 11/16/2014 (and further to the right) 7/23/2015. When she lifts her head, Hannibal registers her confusion.

“November sixteenth, the day we took up residency, as man and wife, in Italy. July twenty-third, the day our daughter was born” he says, smiling softly. He notes her surprise at the gesture, and realizes she has not yet comprehended. “Keys to your memory palace”.

Bedelia looks solemnly at him. “Why, Hannibal?”

Hannibal looks down at his wine glass, fingering its curves. “I’ve added a room to my palace since our time here. The foundation is precarious, but I still enjoy the view.”

Bedelia tilts her head thoughtfully. “And when it falls away?”

Hannibal says nothing. He stares for a moment, and Bedelia sees a disdain for the interim flit across his face.

“You’ve assumed that I will stay, Hannibal?” Bedelia asks, shifting her weight and eyeing the oysters on her plate.

“Assumptions are the death of every mammal. The mouse never assumes the cat won’t kill it.” He takes another bite of his dinner, feeling the sauce glide down his throat. He realizes he cannot taste.

“There are no mice in this Shangri-La, Hannibal.”

“There is one.”

Bedelia hand freezes on her wine glass, and she stares at him, searching his face. Their daughter.

“Two cats cannot birth a litter of mice” she says quietly. She sips her wine, eyes never leaving his face. It tastes like copper, fruit rusted over by a damning truth.

“Not all cats kill mice” he replies.

Hannibal thinks solemnly of the month-old baby nestled in the other room, always tended to by a nurse. Of her memory palace, filled with the nurse’s face, sprinkled with her parent’s.

“I assumed only one thing tonight, Dr. Du Maurier—that you would enjoy the addition to your memory palace. I never assumed you’d remain within this one.” He pauses, removing his wedding band. Light catches the inside, and Bedelia’s eyes dance over the inscription within his. Bedelia sees a hint of sadness pass over his face as he studies it. “I know that when the ground caves in on this Shangri-La that you will take our daughter with you, because curiosity will kill at least one cat.”

Tenderness fell over Bedelia’s face as she watched him turn the wedding band over in his hand. “Cats have nine lives, Hannibal.”

Intrigue passes over his face as he looks up at her.

“They never waste themselves on worry” she says softly, smiling gently at him.

Bedelia heard the clock tick on the wall. Felt a fissure in the palace room. She looked at her husband, acknowledged him as such for the first time, and tasted sadness.

~~~~

The door clicks softly behind Hannibal as he enters the apartment, the moon dancing across the slick marble floors, announcing his late arrival. He muses, with some degree of satisfaction, that he is never met with a harping wife. He finds her, always, warm and placid, somewhere in the recesses of Shangri-La.

His eyes make contact with hers from her place on the couch, the space on her lap occupied by their 8 month old daughter.

“You always look surprised to see me, Hannibal” she says, the words coming after a familiar silence during which she takes a moment to regard him with appreciation.

“I always am” he replies, glancing out the window as he enters the living room. He sees the landscape of Alsace decorating the distance, thinks of his new identity. An acquisition necessary to avoid capture.

“Da-da?”

Hannibal turns to the direction of the sound. His daughter regards him with both awe and curiosity, familiar enough with him to take comfort in his face, yet distant enough to utter the word with diffidence. Her parents are preternatural beings she sees on occasion. Sure of themselves as predators and felines; unnerved by themselves as parents.

“She talks” he says after a momentary pause, glancing at Bedelia, then back at his daughter.

“Apparently since this morning” she replies, smoothing the baby’s hair.

A silence falls. Hannibal locks eyes with Bedelia. They think of the same thing--their daughter, who was more of a fascinating apparition than a person to them. A cherub-faced dark haired girl who had her mother’s eyes and pouting lips, whose equable disposition mirrored their own. She, who gladly welcomed their presence when granted it, but whose disposition was never spoiled by their many absences.

They think of all the monumental moments in her life that they had never been present for, but merely been made aware of.

Hannibal moves forward suddenly and takes her gently in his arms. Though he attempts to conceal it, his stance is awkward and Bedelia can feel his confidence slip.

“You’ve eaten a lot today” he says quietly, poking the small stomach that stretches the cotton of her dress. The baby laughs, hiding her face behind her hands. “Eat, eat, eat” he says, poking her again. She rocks back and forth, a gleeful grin overspreading her face as she says, “Mmmmm, Da-da!”

He looks softly at her for a moment before bringing her close, burying his face in her hair as he breaths in her scent, his olfactory senses lighting up as a gentle lavender and youthful freshness are inhaled. “A little mouse” he says quietly in her ear.

The baby looks suddenly at Bedelia. “Mmmm…mmmm…mmm” she hums, furrowing her brow, her father’s look of determination overspreading her face.

Hannibal brings his face close to her ear. “That is your mama.” He pauses, somewhat wistfully. “Try again. Say ‘mama’”.

The baby reaches for Bedelia. “Mama?” she asks.

A knot forms in Bedelia’s chest. She feels something rising, a cousin of grief. She thinks again of her daughter’s unseen monuments, of praise offered after the fact, of herself in her daughter’s eyes, a kindly shadow known as mother.

Her hands tremble. Hannibal notes the feeling when it takes hold, and gently walks toward Bedelia. He places the baby gently on the couch before her, so they are eye to eye. “Mama” he says quietly again in her ear.

The baby smiles, almost forgivingly. “Mama.” She extends her arms to Bedelia, who slowly accepts the embrace, trepidation wrenching her heart.

An empty seat beside her on the sofa. Hannibal lowers himself to it, attempting to recall the last moment of tenderness between himself and the woman he called his wife. Since the birth of their daughter, the gulf that glared coldly at him a few years prior reintroduced itself, and he visited light in his memory palace, in the room with the etching and the open doors on either end.

Bedelia lays her head on his shoulder, and he sees the light get brighter, watches the doors begin to shut to the room in the palace.

He remembers the night he discovered she was pregnant. “Charlie for a boy” he’d said, her head on his shoulder for the first time. He thinks of what they named their child.

“How is the floor in the room of the palace?” Bedelia asks softly.

Hannibal closes his eyes as he breaths in her perfume, and the baby’s lavender, his cheek touching Bedelia’s platinum hair.

“Fractured underfoot, but I can still stand upon it. Fewer unknown corners, more light.” He pauses. “How is the ground in Shangri-La?”

“Firm, comforting. Firmer with the passage of time.”

Hannibal wraps an arm around Bedelia, and pulls her close.

His musk, her perfume, and lavender fill Shangri-La.

~~~~

A sliver of light bounces off the metal tabletop. Her head is bowed when he enters the room, and he feels old wounds tighten. And not just the unseen ones.

Jack Crawford lowers his aged body into the chair, and his hands press together on the table. He gives her a moment to raise her head in acknowledgement of his presence, and when she does his breath catches.

A perfect mixture of her parents. Almost as beautiful. Somewhere far off the universe sighs.

He regards her rather sadly for a moment before speaking. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me, today. I’m aware this must be difficult for you.” His muscles still feel tight. He adopts an air of confidence, but part of him anticipates her mouth will offer her father’s metallic voice fused with her mother’s peculiar patter.

The voice is surprisingly soft and normal. “You’re welcome.” Her eyes flit momentarily back onto the tabletop before returning to his.

Jack pauses, breaking eye contact, adjusts himself and straightens. “Tell me about your parents.”

A soft smile. “Maybe you should tell me, you know more about them than I do” she replies, shock and sadness dancing across her face.

The honesty of the statement makes Jack uncomfortable, and he fidgets again.

“They were kind…to me.” Her eyes are on the table again. “Warm…warm and intelligent. I always felt I could never catch up, but it wasn’t their fault.”

“Did you see them a lot?” Jack appreciates her candor.

Her eyes drift from his face somewhere behind him. Into the past.

“No, no not really. My father, you know, he worked a lot. He was gone a lot, anyway, whatever he was…” she trails off, grappling with the truth. Jack waits for tears, but she is too distant from her own life now to cry. “Whenever he was home, he spent a lot of time with my mother.”

Jack cocks his head to the side. He imagines he feels water on his tongue. Of all the spheres in which he’d known Hannibal, the image of him as a husband was not one to which he’d been granted access.  Only the icy Mrs. Lecter was privy to that truth, and she’d proven to be the keeper of her own—and her husband’s—flame.

Jack leaped at the chance. “Can you tell me about their relationship?”

She thought for a moment. “As I said, I didn’t see them often. My nanny—I saw her most often—would occasionally bring me from my room to see them. My father…I think he saw my mother as a muse, sort of. She fascinated him, challenged him. She loved to learn and he fed her thirst for knowledge. He was erudite, complex.” She pauses, pulling at her shirt sleeves. “They understood each other.”

“Were they affectionate?”

“Sometimes.” She sees a flicker from the past. “They danced together, sometimes.” The image growing brighter. Red and gold, candlelight dancing off the walls. Hannibal and Bedelia sweeping across the floor. A particularly intimate evening, warmth and fascination, the music swelling, then slowly dying. Bedelia bringing her hands to his face, smiling when he says, “Bellissima.”  “C’è la terrano nella Shangri-La” she replies, as they fade from view.

The memory is gone. Jack watches quietly as it leaves her face.

“From what we’ve gathered we know your mother did not work, correct?” he asks slowly, giving her a moment to shake off the past.

Their daughter straightens in her chair, and for a moment Jack glimpses her mother, all silken, spooling hair against a dancer’s build. The image vanishes when she leans wearily against the back of the chair, the cool plastic separated from her body by a heavy sweater.

“No, she didn’t. She never stayed home though. Or at least, not often, not that she was never home—she was—but I did not see her much either…” She trails off again, shifts, then speaks. “She went out by herself usually, when my father was at work. Shopping, for groceries, clothes…sometimes she’d think of me and bring home something for me. She and my father went out together frequently. Dinner parties.”

Jack is struck by the remark, and catches the thought before the memory has a chance to leave her.

“Dinner parties? They were social?”

“You didn’t know?” she asks gently, a bit puzzled.

Jack shifts awkwardly, attempting to dodge what seems almost like an accusation when hurled by the mouth of a 16 year old girl.

“Your parents were nomadic, for starters—not that I have to tell you that—but their…unusual lifestyle makes it difficult for us to reconstruct their life and, as luck would have it, you are the only person who has an intimate knowledge of them. What you’ve told me cannot be gleaned easily through detective work.”

She smiles understandingly. “Part of why I never really made friends. Their…lifestyle…made it impossible for them to allow me the luxury.”

Jack waits for a moment, then reminds her gently. “The dinner parties.” He leans forward, gently, for emphasis.

She nods, finds her memories again. “They were out a lot. On occasion, they had guests over. I remember my father joking once that dinner parties were not as thrilling after I was born, something about how babies and veal don’t mix.”

Breath stops for a moment in Jack’s body, and he has to remind himself to continue breathing. He hopes the reference to veal is the closest Lecter’s offspring has come to human flesh.

She is still talking. “My father did all the cooking in the house. He’d serve me normal food, I guess that’s a strange way to describe it, but food that he knew regular families ate. We had two refrigerators. The meals he cooked for himself and my mother were always extravagant, the meat stored in a separate refrigerator…something about how it had to be kept at a certain temperature to allow for handling, blending of flavors.”

Jack sees another window. “Your mother ate the same dishes as your father?”

“Not usually. She tried to avoid food with a central nervous system, as she told me once.”

Jack feels faint for a moment, and digs his nails into his arm to maintain consciousness.

He decides he’s had enough talk of meat.

He looks at her gently, trying to separate her from her parents. Relieved he cannot see them anymore.

“Did they love you?”

Loneliness grabs hold of her features and twists it, until she is almost too contorted to view. “I don’t think they were capable of love, at least not as you and I know it. They were generous, warm… _loving_ …but I don’t think they could love. I guess knowing what I know now I can see how it would be outside of their nature.”

“So they didn’t love each other?” Jack narrows his eyes, trying to picture Hannibal and Bedelia dancing.

“My father came home one evening with my mother from one of their dinner parties. It was one of those rare evenings I was awake to greet them. Anyway, I asked them how everything had gone and he told me the festivities had been ‘spoiled’—his words—by the revelation that the husband had been unfaithful. He said that happened in marriages where respect between spouses had dissipated. ‘You can appreciate something without respecting it. You appreciate your bed, but you walk past it each day without a second glance. Divorce the object from your respect and you can hurt it easily. On occasion you hurt the things you respect, either out of carelessness or in reaction to what they do to you’. That’s what he said. Respect maintains and sustains in his eyes.” She paused. “My father loved my mother, in his way, as much as he could love something, but he gave her something he didn’t give most people: respect.”

“And she returned it?”

“Yes, because he challenged her. He fascinated her, I think. She’s hard to excite, very…sedate, placid, usually. He introduced adventure into her life, and he wasn’t stagnant. He was like water, essentially the same but always evolving, adapting, always in control of his environment.”

Jack opened his mouth to speak but the words died on his tongue. He looked carefully at her and thought maybe he had done enough damage for one day.

He thanked her, and walked slowly alongside her toward the front door of the police headquarters. She reached for the door, then changed her mind and turned to him.

“I hope what I told you was helpful. I wish I knew my parents…sometimes, although if I had known more I might not be here.” She attempts a half-hearted smile that tugs listlessly at the corners of her lips.

“You’ve been very helpful. I’m sorry we had to meet like this.” He pauses, studying her face. “I’m sorry for the effect your parent’s life had on you.” He declines to confirm her suspicions about the effect knowledge might have had on her mortality.

She feels the cold autumn air tug gently at her sweater, folding her arms to shield herself from the chill that seems insistent on knowing her skin. She tries to shake off the thought of her parents, tries to form thoughts of a future apart from them. Apart from their life. Thinks of her plan to change her last name.

She rounds the corner and the sight of something on the sidewalk stops her short. She lifts her head and sees a cat standing a few feet up ahead. She begins to kneel when she notices something in its mouth. A mouse, blood staining its fur, staining the cat’s teeth, staining the fur on his jaw. A chill descends her spine and she remembers her father’s pet name for her, hears his dutch accent cooing the words into her ear.

“My little mouse.”

~~~~

Cool cotton welcomes Jack as he lifts the blanket from its place on the bed and settles in. He knows time is not on his side and does not bother to glance at the clock. Sleep will not come soon, and he will wake up tired.

He reaches for a notebook on his nightstand, firm black leather confirming its importance. He flips through a few pages which feature his notes, penned in a slim hurried hand, veering jarringly from cursive to print, and back again. His fingers feel the slick surface a polaroid. A present from Lecter’s offspring. “I have no use for it.”

He removes it slowly from its hiding spot, almost as though fear has clashed with curiosity and rendered his hands less able to do their job.

Taken during one of their evenings together. A secret immortalization of a moment in time by the hands of a young girl.

Candles in the image distort the surroundings, and only the center of the photograph is crisp. Hannibal with his arm around Bedelia mid-dance, gazing tenderly at her, she returning his gaze. Two sleek figures streaking carelessly through an atmosphere colored red by their flames.

Jack brushes carelessly against an old scar. He uncharacteristically lifts the covers to view it, almost in defiance of its ugliness. He returns his eyes to the photograph, shutting the book and turning off the lamp. The whole room plunged into darkness.

He lays in the stillness and tries to slow his breathing. He thinks of the photograph, and tries to reconcile the whirling image with his last memories of Hannibal.

He falls asleep trying.

 

_Fini_

 


End file.
